Autumn's Requiem
by Aratlithiel1
Summary: Co-written with Ariel, 4 chapters, Part 2 of the 'Seasons In The Shire' trilogy but also a stand-alone piece, 'R' for chapter 2
1. Autumn's Requiem Chapter 1

Title:  Autumn's Requiem

Author:  Aratlithiel and Ariel

Summary:  A 'what if' Frodo/Rosie romance

Category:  Angst/Romance

Rating:  PG-13 thru R

June 20, 2003

~*~

A/N – Concept by Aratlithiel, writing by Aratlithiel and Ariel

Autumn's Requiem – Part 2 of the 'Seasons in the Shire' Trilogy

~*~

This is as close to book canon as we could make it with two exceptions:  1-  Rose works at the inn as she did in the movie (because it was just so _convenient_) and 2-  Frodo's description includes his lovely blue eyes (although Tolkien never said he _didn't_ have blue eyes…he might have – _you_ don't know!)

_Co-Author's Note:  _From Ariel_ – I have been absolutely delighted to find Aratlithiel, a true jewel among hobbit lasses, but to work with her has been an utter dream.  She and I have been on such an incredibly similar wavelength that all I have had to say was a word or phrase, and she has written it – and using the same spirit and enthusiasm I intended!  I can literally not believe my good fortune!  She is supremely talented and a joy to talk to… and though we have known each other only a few weeks, I feel like we have been friends our whole lives.  That is such an incredibly rare feeling and one most of us only experience when we are youngsters – to find it with a sweet kindred spirit at my age is a marvel that I thank Aratlithiel for.  _

_Autumn's Requiem is broken up into chapters – roughly by who did the majority of the writing.  Chapters 1 and 3 are Aratlithiel's, chapters 2 and 4 are mine though the story idea and original story rough were Aratlithiel's.  I hope you, the reader, enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it with her._

_(Please see Aratlithiel's note at the end of this chapter.)_

~*~ 

~Chapter 1~

Rated: PG-13

He sat alone in the corner and Rose found her eyes straying back to gaze at him again and again as if drawn by some silent command.  He hadn't been by since the incident with Sandyman several weeks ago and Rose had begun to wonder if he'd ever return.  Then he traipsed in with a smile and 'hello' for her nigh on half an hour before as if he'd only been in just yesterday.

He was absently sipping at a mug of ale and his attention was focused on the open pages of the book splayed on the table.  A mostly empty bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread were pushed to the side and out of his way.  His feet looked rather muddy and the bottom edges of his cloak, which was thrown carelessly on the bench across from him, looked damp and heavy as if he'd been walking through high, moist grass.  The battered walking stick and even more battered leather pack propped against the wall behind him led Rose to deduce that Mr. Baggins had been out and about on one of the infamous jaunts the folk in Hobbiton so dearly loved to gossip and conjecture about.  _'Where DO you suppose he gets himself off to?'  _people would say._  'Off to mingle with those Elves more like than not…he's a Baggins, ain't he?'  _was most often their disapproving answer.

Rose never understood why the people of Hobbiton and Bywater seemed to scrutinize the young master of Bag End so ruthlessly or why they seemed so scandalized by his slightest oddity.  After all, she didn't see what was so strange about taking long walks and reading.  Plenty of folk could be found out and about with their walking sticks on a nice day and that wasn't considered scandalous in the least - and those who _could_ read often did.  It remained a mystery to Rose why it would cause such a flurry of whispered conversation when it was young Mr. Baggins who did those things and anyone else could do so without so much as a peep being said.  

Of course, the elder Mr. Baggins _had_ been a bit on the outrageous side - what with his tales of dragons and wizards and the like.  Rose herself had always found the tales exciting and wildly fascinating.  Not that she'd ever dream of seeking her own adventure, mind, but to have actually met someone who had _had_ one… made her feel quite special, it did, and she wasn't ashamed to let anyone know it.

She shifted her gaze around the room, looking to see if anyone's mug needed her immediate attention.  The room was fairly empty, it being the middle of the week and most folk thinking about their beds about this time of night and not whether or not her pitcher was sitting idle.  She sighed, took up her rag and began wiping down the bar.  It was the third time she'd done so in the last ten minutes.  After she'd finished absently lifting pitchers and crockery and swiping her cloth underneath, she tossed the rag back into the basin and propped her elbow on top of the bar and her chin in her hand.  She absently blew a wisp of stray curl out of her eyes, and found that they had again drifted over to Mr. Baggins.

_'My!, but he is lovely to look at, isn't he now?'_ thought Rose.  She had seen him often enough, but it was only recently that she had actually begun to _notice_ him.  He had been just another part of life in Bywater until the set-to with Sandyman.  It wasn't until he'd knocked Ted onto his ear that Rose had begun to think that maybe there was something about Mr. Baggins that she had been missing all that time.  There was a wildness in him that she had witnessed only that night - a tumult of passion and feeling that seemed to roil just below the surface.  The brief glimpse of it had taken Rose's breath away and she wondered what she'd find if she had the opportunity to look a bit longer and deeper.

He was what her mother would call a 'friendly acquaintance,' - someone you would pass by and exchange smiles with but never really sit down and talk to - someone you'd maybe like to get to know a little better but never really took the time or opportunity to actually do it.  He often stopped at the inn for lunch or tea when he passed by on his way home from one of his jaunts or hiked over from Hobbiton with Samwise for a few ales or a bite of supper.  

Samwise.  She laughed a little and bit her lip, wondering what Samwise would think if he knew she was here ogling his master as he sat minding his own business and reading his book.  She blushed a little at the thought and began to trace abstract patterns on the bar's polished surface.  

Sam was a good hobbit - one of the best she knew.  She used to love nothing better than to spend a lazy afternoon with him and her brothers dipping their toes in Bywater Pool or just roaming through the wheat fields making jokes and playing tag.  Up until just this past spring she'd been certain he was going to speak any day and it had made her giggle like a little lass to think what she would say or do when he did.  But lately he'd been distant and seemed more concerned with the doings of his master than anything Rose might be getting herself up to.  The few times he had come to court, he'd been sweetly shy as usual and attentive, of course, but had cut the evening short on every occasion, always using some excuse of having to keep near his master with his upcoming move to Buckland so near… 'incase he needs anything, you understand' he would say.

Rose did not understand and she'd had it just about up to the tips of her ears with sweet and shy.  Rose Cotton was a full-grown hobbit lass after all and though she couldn't say she had as much experience as someone like that Pearl Took there had been so much gossip about lately, well…a lass from Bywater could have wants and desires too, couldn't she?  And right now Rose wanted something more than bashful hand-holding and chaste kisses on her cheek.  She wanted something…_exciting_, maybe even a little dangerous…something… _exotic_.

She pulled her eyes from the bar and looked across the room to find them locked immediately on those of Mr. Baggins.

~ * ~

Rose caught her breath and held it for a moment.  His bright eyes seemed to capture and hold hers even from several dozen feet away.  For a moment, she wondered if he had somehow heard her thoughts and she blushed again.  She wondered also how many lasses had drowned in those eyes and why none of them had managed to hold onto him for very long.  Oh, she had heard the rumors about Mr. Baggins on _that_ subject often enough and unlike the other nasty ones she'd heard, these she tended to believe.  They were, after all, some of the few _nice_ things being said about him.  Rose doubted anyone would make up complimentary things to say about Mr. Baggins when there were already so many _un_complimentary things running about to fill a conversation with.

She saw his dark brow quirk and his full lips turn up in a puzzled smile before she realized she was still staring at him.  He lifted his mug in a silent request for a refill and the spell was broken.  Rose blushed yet again as she fumbled behind her for the pitcher and had to take several deep breaths to collect herself before making her way across the room.

"Everything well, then, Mr. Baggins?" she asked as she poured him a fresh draught.

"Very well, Miss Cotton, thank you for asking," he replied.  "And you?"

It took an effort of will to keep her hand steady as she poured.  So intent was Rose's concentration on the task at hand that she didn't realize he had asked her a question.

"Beg pardon, sir?" she said, not daring to lift her eyes to his.

He chuckled a little and repeated his question.  "I asked you how you are doing, Miss Cotton.  Is everything well with you?"  

She risked a glance at him.  He was smiling at her and his eyes were dancing, weaving their spell.  She looked away quickly, hoping to hide the blush she could feel beginning to heat her cheeks.  _'Does he do that on purpose?'_ she wondered.  _'Does he even know he does it?'_

"Aye, sir," she said.  "Things are grand.  Can I get you anythin', sir?"

"No thank you, Miss Cotton," he said, lifting his freshly filled mug.  "I believe I'll finish this and be off."

She reached for the remnants of his supper and stacked the bowl onto the cutting board beside the unfinished bread.  As she lifted the small pile from the table, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes again.  Her grip faltered.  The bowl tipped clumsily and he reached to catch it, capturing her hand in one of his and the bowl in the other.  The spark that flew from his skin to hers startled her and she nearly snatched her hand away in astonishment, but something made her leave it where it was instead.  She looked at him.

"Aye, sir," she heard herself say as if someone else were speaking.  "I believe I'll be heading off myself right soon."

His eyes narrowed slightly and his gaze intensified.  She could almost feel them burning her skin as they traveled deliberately from her own and down her arm to the hand he still clutched his.  His grip tightened for a moment and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Then perhaps," he said once more meeting her eyes, "perhaps you'll allow me to see you home safely, Miss Cotton."  He released her hand but continued to hold her with his eyes.

She straightened slowly.  It seemed there was a roaring sound in her ears and heat flushed her cheeks.  Her voice, coming in quick, feathery puffs, sounded far more collected than she felt.  "That would be right nice of you, Mr. Baggins," she said slowly and flashed him a small smile.

~ * ~

The smials of Bywater were mostly dark and the stars blazed brilliantly as they made their way down the road.  Early September leaves of scarlet and gold shone black against the autumn sky and the sweet smell of wood smoke wafting through the air called to mind images of home and comfort.  The dirt path they strode stretched out before them, the reflected starlight turning its normal tawny brown to a rippling stream of pale cream.

They walked close together and Rose could feel an exhilarating lightning pass through her whenever her arm would brush against his.  It was as if he were a thundercloud and she were a drop of rain he was gathering to himself before letting loose an almighty burst.  She could scarcely put one foot in front of the other and had to keep reminding herself to breathe so she wouldn't end up fainting dead away in the middle of the road.  They walked without speaking for long moments and after a time the silence got so heavy Rose thought she might scream just to break it.  Then he spoke and the quiet of the night seemed to scatter and flee on the inflections of his clear, musical voice.

"Sam spoke of courting you once," he said casually.  "Do you still?  Court, I mean?"

"No," she said, though perhaps a little too quickly.  She thanked the darkness for hiding her blush.  "That is, well…"  She stopped and thought for a moment.  "Truth be told, Mr. Baggins," she continued, "I think Samwise has lost interest in me.  He hasn't come to call in quite some time and I've quite given up on him."

He stopped walking and turned to look at her.  His eyes shone in the darkness and the stars silhouetted his frame as if they glittered in their twilight dance just for the joy of being near him.  It was only a fingernail moon tonight, but it seemed every beam of light it gave off shone down directly on him and turned his skin to a shimmering silver.  _'Oh, he's just so _beautiful_…I don't think I can stand it.'_

"Are you quite certain?" he asked, his eyes boring holes into her, piercing her and pinning her with their intensity.

"Oh, yes," she whispered.  "Quite certain."

He gazed at her for a moment longer, gave a small nod as if satisfied then turned and continued walking.

"I'm afraid I'm at a loss as to where your home is, Miss Cotton," he said.  "You'll have to alert me when we near the turn."

Rose stopped this time and he continued on for a few steps before realizing she was no longer beside him.  He turned to her, puzzled.  She stood in the road and looked at him, breathing with quick, light breaths.  Her head was spinning but she gave him a small, giddy smile.  He returned it with a quizzical look.

"We've passed the turn to my home, Mr. Baggins," she said simply.

"Oh?" he said, his brows lifting as he looked at her questioningly.  "Why did you not say?"

She took several deep breaths and closed her eyes.  "Because," she said, "I thought I might like to visit Hobbiton this evenin', sir.  I thought I might like to see Bag End."  She opened her eyes.  "I thought I'd like to go to _your_ home this evening."

He was very still and his eyes seemed to glow as they bored into hers.  She felt naked before him, judged.  He stared at her for a very long time, seeming not to move, or even breathe.  She flushed right down to her toes and had almost made up her mind to just turn and walk away in her embarrassment when he spoke.

"Why?" he asked.

Rose faltered.  "Why, sir?"  She was surprised at the question and it took a moment for mind to stop tripping over itself and think of an appropriate response.  Would he really make her say it right out loud?  "I…" she began.  "I should think that would be obvious, sir."

"Perhaps for any other hobbit," he said, his voice flat and his eyes dark, "but I am not…"  He stopped and looked up to the sparkling waltz of the stars above their heads for a long moment.  Then he dropped his eyes back to hers.  "Things are different for me," he said matter-of-factly.  "I must know before I continue."

_'Gracious,'_ she thought, _'are things so difficult for him?  Has he been stared at and gossiped about for so long that he can't even trust a lass who's throwing herself at him?'_  Rose suddenly felt a great wash of pity flow over her and an even greater surge of wanton desire for him.  Her eyes filled with unbidden tears and she stepped closer, raising her hand to his cheek.  _'…so lovely.'_

"I could lie to you, Mr. Baggins and say it's because I'm in love with you and have been admiring you for years," she said.  "But the plain truth is, sir, I've heard the rumors."  His eyes narrowed and she heard a hiss of breath as his body tensed and he made to move away.  "The rumors," she said quickly, staying him with her touch, "the rumors say that you're different with the lasses than other lads are.  Different in a good way, sir."  She bit her lip and softly stroked his cheek.  He closed his eyes and turned his face slightly andalmost unwillingly so that and his lips brushed her thumb.  "I don't really believe the other things some say about you, but I think I believe that."  Her voice dropped to a bare whisper and she moved in so close her warm breath skimmed his throat.  "And I wanted to find out for myself…sir.  I could do with a little bit of different just now.  Just for tonight."

He let out a long breath and stepped away, opening his eyes.  He tilted his head to gaze at the sky, seeming to turn her words over in his mind.  He remained still for a very long time and she again thought that maybe she should turn quietly for home and try to forget that she had placed herself in such an awkward and embarrassing position.

"What of your family?" he asked quietly.  "Won't they worry after you?"

"I often stay at the inn when I've a late night," she said.  "They'll not think it any different."

He turned his head and gave her a penetrating look.  "And you're certain your courtship with Samwise is over?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said.

Keeping his gaze locked on hers he said, "I shall be going away soon.  I cannot promise anything more than tonight."

She returned his look steadily.  "Aye sir.  I'd not want more even if you were to ask it of me."

He seemed to consider that for a moment then his mouth pulled up in a gentle smile and he turned to her and extended his arm.

"All right, then," he said quietly.  "I shall be most honored to have you as my guest this evening, Rose.  But only if we can dispense with the 'sir' and settle on Frodo."

She returned his smile and took his arm.

~ * ~

His hand reached for the knob of the round green door and stopped, resting on the smooth, cool brass before he grasped it and turned to her.  She saw doubt in his eyes for the first time since they'd left the inn and she wondered what it could mean.  He brought his hand to his face and rubbed his jaw for a moment, his brows drawn together as if he were trying to puzzle out a very difficult riddle.

"Rose," he said, "are you quite certain you would not like me to escort you home?"

Rose drew her own brows together and felt her breath stop.  _'Oh my.  Does he not want me?  Have I been too forward?  Shocked him?'_

 "I…I don't understand Mis- _Frodo_," she stammered, suddenly shy and unsure.  "Have I…do you not…"  She stopped and looked at him openly, hands wringing at the fringe of her shawl.  "Do you want me to go?"

He gave her a small, warm smile and took both her hands in his, the right one warm and moist from when it had held her arm and the left cool and dry from the chill of the doorknob.  The magic of his eyes surrounded her and she felt a fluttering warmth in her belly that moved through her body to tingle even her fingers and toes with new heat.

"No, Rose," he said, "I don't want you to go.  It's just…"  He looked down and dropped her hands.  He ran a hand through his hair while the other moved to clutch at his cloak and then fist at his hip.  He bent his head and paused then peered up at her, hand still tangled in his hair.  He gave a small chuckle, at once merrily mischievous and abashedly perplexed.  "I don't make a habit of bringing lasses to my bed unless…well, unless it's someone I care for very much and who cares for me as well.  And since you've been so direct with me I feel I must reciprocate.  Though you may not have admired me for years, I must confess that I have admired you.  In fact I may have attempted to coax you here sooner had not Sam let it slip that he fancied you."

"Oh, sir," she started and he frowned at her.  "Frodo," she corrected, "I…I didn't mean…"

"You were very plain in what you meant, dear Rose," he said quickly, "and please don't think I've taken offense - I haven't.  I admire your boldness and believe I've never had so pleasing a proposal from one so fair in all my years."  He smiled gently and reclaimed her hands.  "But the fact is, dear Rose," he continued, "there are certain… responsibilities that must be considered when two people…"  He paused and flushed with an embarrassed smile and Rose had to work hard to restrain a giggle.  "I told you before that I would be leaving shortly," he went on.  "I will be leaving Hobbiton and may be…unavailable for quite some time."

"Aye, sir," said Rose.  "You're off to Buckland.  I've heard."

"Buckland, yes," Frodo's eyes took on a far away expression and his brow creased in what appeared to Rose to be something akin to sorrow or regret.  He seemed to recall himself and then refocused on Rose.  "Buckland and perhaps…perhaps a bit further.  It's quite possible I shall not return."

Her face pulled into a worried frown. "Not return?  But…" 

"The point is," he interrupted, "that should consequences arise, I may not be on hand to…well to help."

"Oh," breathed Rose and smiled with relief.  _So _that_ was all_.  "Oh, you needn't worry yourself over such things," she laughed and tousled his hair like a small lad.  "I've maybe not had all the experience as some have but I'm no babe either.  I know my herbs and how to read a calendar well enough."  Her smile broadened and he returned it with a bright one of his own.

"Still," he said soberly but not without a twinkle in his eye, "there are risks and…"

"Why don't you let me worry about the risks," she said and patted his cheek with her small, warm hand.  She reached for the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open and then looked back over her shoulder.  "Are you going to invite me in, then?" she asked with a smile.

He gave her a gentle laugh and placing his hand at her waist, led her through the door.

~*~

TBC

~*~

_Co-Author's Note:  _From Aratlithiel – _I tumbled into this friendship with Ariel by sheer luck and circumstance.  For those of you who don't send thank you notes to your reviewers, I suggest you start doing so – you never know where it might lead.  The result of those first few exchanged emails is a lovely kinship brought about through shared opinions and mutual admiration for each other's expressions of love for Tolkien's work.  I myself do not pretend to be equal to Ariel's talent at turn-of-phrase and those of you who have not read her work must do so at once.  _ _(My personal favorite is 'Thicker Than Blood' but feel free to choose your own  :)  Her work is astonishing in it's brilliance and I truly cannot imagine anyone disagreeing with my personal assessment of it.  She writes very true to Tolkien book canon and her work can honestly be called missing chapters.  I am in awe._

_This fic began as a follow-up to 'Nigh on September.'  I happened to mention to Ariel that I was toying with the idea of a Frodo/Rose romance and she responded that she didn't think it would be believable.  Considering myself duly challenged, I promptly wrote chapter 1 and then got caught like a deer in the headlights with chapter 2.  Once you've read chapter 2, you will all thank me for having absolutely no talent with love scenes and throwing myself at Ariel's mercy to undo the horrific mess I got myself into.  Suitably convinced of the plausibility of the story-line, she rose to the challenge magnificently and a partnership was born.  What she can do with words is beyond my understanding but I am happy to sit back and watch her do it and then bask in the completed work.  I am truly thanking the Valar that such an artist deigns to call me 'friend.'_

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	2. Autumn's Requiem Chapter 2

Title:  Autumn's Requiem

Author:  Aratlithiel and Ariel

Summary:  A 'what if' Frodo/Rosie romance

Category:  Angst/Romance

Rating:  PG-13 thru R

June 20, 2003

~*~

A/N – Concept by Aratlithiel, writing by Aratlithiel and Ariel

Autumn's Requiem – Part 2 of the 'Seasons in the Shire' Trilogy

~*~

~Chapter 2~

Rated: R

~*~

They stepped to the tiled floor of the entryway and Frodo led her to the pegs on the wall, stopping for a moment to light the sconce on the wall in the hallway.

"May I?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and lightly grasping the knitted shawl she had wrapped around them.

"Nay," said Rose, tightening her hold on the fringes.  "I'd like to keep it, thank you kindly."  Rose wasn't sure what the morning routine was at Bag End but she certainly didn't want Sam coming in to do his morning chores and spotting her shawl draped over a peg on Mr. Baggins' cloak rack.  Wants and desires notwithstanding, Rose was a very practical girl.

"All right, then," Frodo said as he removed his own cloak and hung it on a peg.  "Would you like to go into the parlor for some wine or tea perhaps?"

Rose turned and gazed at him silently, feeling the heat rekindle in her belly and spread throughout her suddenly trembling body.  She reached up to tuck a stray curl behind his ear and he closed his eyes.  Even his breath stood still as she traced about his ear with her fingertip.  She dallied there for a moment, stroking the rapidly pinking ear tip, feeling the silk of his dark hair as it curled around her finger and watching his cheeks heat with a flush of sudden warmth.  She could feel the waves of passion and want radiating from him and when he opened his eyes again they were so dark and fiery she could not pull her gaze away.

He lifted her chin and stroked her skin with his thumb, drawing in close and brushing his lips against hers in a maddeningly soft caress.  With the same hand, he stroked her neck, his touch showing none of his earlier tentativeness.  His breath was hot against her lips and the scent of him, a heavy stirring musk, was making her senses reel.  The warmth in her belly spread lower and a stabbing ache pierced her loins.  There was no turning back now.  She had been sure of herself when she asked to accompany him home, but her body's sudden comprehension of what was about to happen sent a thrill of fear up her back.  She didn't want to stop him, and was not sure if she could have, but the imminence of this deliciously furtive act sent a charge of doubt through her.  _What was she thinking?_  Her body answered her unspoken question with unerring swiftness.  Her hands reached up and plunged into his dark hair.  She pulled him close and pressed her lips hard against his.  Warm, soft lips, just as tender as she had imagined, quivered and opened to her.  She thrust her tongue eagerly into his inviting mouth and felt the lightning touch of his own tongue as it slid past hers.  The taste of him and the sensation of him delving into her mouth crackled through her, igniting a fire where there had been warmth and burying the last vestige of her hesitation.

She pressed her body against him until he was pushed to the wall and until she could feel his desire hard and solid against her.  She suddenly hungered to feel him pressed against the very center of her need and rose on her tiptoes as she leaned into him.  His own yearning seemed enflamed by her unabashed eagerness, and he dove into her mouth again aggressively.  His hands traveled down her back to her buttocks and he squeezed her tighter against him.  Rose could feel the warm ridge of flesh even through the many folds of fabric that separated them and unashamedly arched her hips to meet it.  Frodo's breath quickened and a soft growl rose in his throat.

His hands were sure and steady as they stroked her body against him.  They caressed and urged and seemed to be everywhere at once.  She felt them cup her buttocks; squeezing the soft flesh and pulling her harder against him.  Then one wandered to her waist and, with a firm upward stroke, rode up over the mound of her breast as his lips and tongue wandered slowly down her throat.  Every part of her body was responding to him.  She was being played expertly, like a fine instrument by a master of the craft.  The sensations were overwhelming; the heat and damp between her legs, the aching pull that radiated out from her belly, the sweet musk of his dark curls as they brushed her face.  Her head spun.  The heat of her own desire threatened to engulf her and turn her legs to jelly.  She clutched at the shawl as it slipped from her shoulder and Frodo suddenly broke off his hungry progress.  Rose moaned the loss of his petal soft lips and opened her eyes.

Frodo's eyes were so dark in the dimness of the smial they almost seemed black.  Tiny specks of light glittered in their depths and they swirled with naked, unquenched fervor.  She stared into those dark pools, mesmerized and wondered if it were possible for her to fall into them and whirl in their depths until she cried out from the bliss of it.  His lips shimmered too, rosy and wet with desire and his cheeks were flushed an excited pink.  The sight of this elegant and exotic creature so aroused took Rose's breath away.  He _was_ lovely!  She could feel the heartbeat pounding through his lithe frame and with each quickened breath, the hard flesh he pressed against her jumped with unrepressed eagerness.  If he had not had such a firm grip on her she would have swooned.  

"Come with me," he whispered.

~*~

They entered his bedroom.  Rose was amazed to find she could still walk after the hallway, but as she looked at the big featherbed in the center of the room, her knees weakened again.  It looked so soft and inviting.  Its white down coverlet borrowed pale blue from the faint moonlight that spilled into the room and the fluffy white pillows looked like clouds against the dark walnut headboard.  Rose had a sudden vision of her hair spilled across the pillowcases and her hands clenching the rich cotton sheets.  Sweet terror ran up her spine again.  _Rose Cotton what are you _doing_?  Have you gone mad?_

He went to the fireplace, stripping his jacket and tossing it on the overstuffed chair that crouched by the hearth.  He bent to rekindle the fire and warm the chill room.  Rose watched, entranced, as the soft glow of the flame pulled a dazzling umber from his hair and lit his face with a warm, golden glow of fire and shadow.  She caught her breath.  _He was breathtakingly beautiful._  From the fire-lit tips of his curls to the soft curve of his strong back, he had a loveliness that made you ache to touch him, if for no other reason than to prove to yourself that such beauty could really exist in the here and now.  And here he was, in his home, alone with her.  By his own admission he had wanted to approach her for years.  This despite their stations and despite mutual acquaintances and previous attachments.  And soon he would be going away, perhaps forever?  A chance like this might never present itself again.  She took a deep breath and stilled her trembling hands.  She knew what she was doing.  She dropped her shawl to the wooden chair beside the door and reached behind her to pull the latch to.  If this was madness, then let it be an exquisite madness.

He looked up at the click of the lock and stood.  His eyes glittered knowingly in the newly bright fire and he began to unbutton his waistcoat.  He watched her, unabashed, as the garment came undone and then sent it to join the jacket on the chair.  Every gesture had an economy of movement, a grace and beauty the like of which she had never seen.  His fingers came to rest on the topmost button of his shirt and the image of them arrayed gracefully across sumptuous cotton fabric burned into her memory.  It had surprised her how soft those fingers were.  When she had taken his hand, it was almost a shock not to feel hard horny calluses or to feel dry, cracked, labor roughened skin like that the men in her family possessed.  His fingers had felt almost alien - but not unwelcome for all their softness.  He knew how to use them, as his fervent stroking of her body attested, and the thought of those soft fingertips caressing her naked skin sent a shiver of anticipation up her spine.  

He took several steps toward her and suddenly she was rushing to meet him.  Their lips met and the passion that had flamed in the hallway rekindled tenfold.  This time, Rose opened to him and the eager forcefulness of his plunging kiss left her gasping.  He stroked her sides firmly, leaving a trail of fire where he touched her.  Yes! He did know how to use those elegant hands.  She wrapped her arms around his lean waist and tugged the shirttail from the small of his back.  There, beneath warm cotton, his skin was warmer still.  She placed her palm against the hollow of his spine and stroked him.  His skin was as soft as a baby's bottom but the muscles beneath, tensed in anticipation, were firm and solid.  All the walking he did kept him fit and sound.  And so responsive!  The lightest touch of her fingertips made his back quiver, his hands knead mercilessly into her buttocks and his lips dance against hers with an enthusiasm and knowledge that she had never before experienced.  This would not be like taking a tumble with some lad in her father's barn; all panting breaths and hurried kisses.  This would be deeper, richer - almost divine; a feast of sensation almost too fine for her simple heart to bear.

His hands returned to move slowly up her waist and with determined, assertive strokes he reached her breasts.  Tenderly he cradled each and began to rub his thumbs firmly over her nipples.  They sprang erect even through the fabric of her bodice.  Rose moaned into his mouth and arched eagerly against him.  The tingle that began at the points of his exquisite touch joined the fire in her belly and threatened to sear her to her deepest depths.  He knew just how to please her, that was certain.  He began to knead the soft tissues and stroked harder until she fell away from his kiss to gasp in ecstasy.  

Instead of allowing her a reprieve, his fingers went to the laces of her bodice and began pulling at them with a gentle urgency.

"Why," he groaned, laying his forehead against her soft neck. "Must lasses' garments be so blasted complicated?"

She smiled and though it was difficult to even think when his mouth moved so skillfully against her throat, she managed to whisper, "So that we can be sure, mmmmm,.... sure that the lad who tries to puzzle them open is either very practiced or very persistent."

He let out a small chuckle and the feel of his breathy laughter against her neck nearly drove her mad with desire.  Her arms tightened reflexively around his trim waist and she felt the ridge of flesh, still hard and hot press exactly where she needed to feel it.   Frodo's laughter turned to a deep groan of need.  

"Well, then you're in luck," he breathed, his voice thick and rough with passion.  He pulled the bodice from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor, "for I am both."  He set to work on the laces of her blouse and she reached for his shirtfront.  Desire lent skill to her fingertips and she deftly flicked the buttons open.  Soft cotton folds fell back to expose his lean, solid chest and she ran eager hands over the smooth expanse.  He was pale, almost luminescent in the moonlight and yet the fire and his ardor touched his body with a delicious pink.  She ran her hands over his heated skin and he tilted his head back as she leaned in to circle her tongue around a dark nipple.

"Oh, Rose," he whispered and tangled a hand in her hair to press her mouth more firmly to his chest.  She obliged eagerly, letting him know by example the treatment she herself would appreciate.  He groaned even louder and wrapped the other arm about her body to pull her tight against him.   She laved his chest with her tongue and bit at his nipples till they became hard dark nubs on his chest.  His breathing quickened and he began to grind his hips against hers.  That simple movement almost destroyed her.  If this were the primer of his skill, then the whole text would be beyond imagining.  Her hands trembled as they pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms.  His hand was still tangled in her curls and he pulled her away from her task and forced her to look up into his face.

There he stood for a long moment, his dark, feral eyes staring deep into hers.  Then, as if deciding, he slipped the shirt off first one arm, then the other and put both hands to her cheeks.  Rose's head began to clear of its lusty fog and she wondered what delight he had next in store for her.  She had heard the rumors, and from what she had already experienced, no doubt remained in her that they were absolutely true.  He claimed her mouth once again and thrust his tongue in to circle and sweep against her own.  His hands finished the task of unlacing her blouse in three swift, efficient motions, and he pushed it hurriedly aside to touch her breasts without the shield of fabric between them.

Rose was right.  His soft hands felt exquisite against her creamy skin.  They rolled and teased her nipples until she groaned again and then he bent to suckle the aroused breast.  If his hands had felt glorious, his lips were divine.  Rose's eyes rolled back and she wrapped her arms around Frodo's dark head, drawing him in, trapping him against her breasts, pleading, begging, demanding that he not stop this delicious attention.  He obliged, gleefully, with the enthusiasm of a child finally being given permission to play with his favorite toy.  Soft sucks, bites and vigorous rooting drew Rose almost to the point of ecstasy.  _And we've not done anything yet!_ her mind screamed.  The energy building in her loins rose and crested, then stabilized at the height of arousal.  When this culmination came, it would tear her apart.  

In the part of her mind that could still be aware of such things, she felt his hands moving down to the fastenings of her skirt.  The garment came undone and he slipped her clothes; skirt, petticoats and bloomers, inch by inch, over her bottom and down her shapely legs.  He paused a moment to slip a hand between her thighs as if to sample the warm wetness there, but he did not pursue it.  Rose, taken to the edge of ecstasy by this hobbit's already displayed skills, was vaguely glad he did not touch her yet.  That would have been all that was needed to finish her… and she was not yet ready for that.

She kicked the clothes off the ends of her feet impatiently and Frodo's strong arms lifted her and wrapped her legs around his waist.  It was time.  She could feel him carrying her to the bed, could feel the touch of soft cool cotton against her heated skin, could feel his delightfully playful mouth leave her breasts to trail liquid fire down her belly.  She arched into him but he leaned back and stood gazing down at her, his chest heaving.

"Rose Cotton you are beautiful," he whispered.  "The most beautiful creature I have ever seen."  He paused, as if he might say more, and, as she felt his hands moving away from her, Rose wondered if he was having second thoughts.  Reassurance came a moment later in the unmistakable thump of his braces and trousers hitting the floor.  Then she opened her eyes.

Firelight danced across his naked body, washing it in golden shadow.  His lean muscles were defined sharply in the faint light but his face remained in shadow.  The glitter of his eyes and the flash of two gapped teeth highlighted the hobbit features on this otherworldly creature.  Surely no being from Middle earth could be this lovely.  She raised her arms and beckoned him.  He smiled, and more teeth flashed, and he leaned over her prostrate form to place a gentle kiss between her breasts.

She knew what the rumors had said.  She had seen the suffused blush of guilty fire when those who knew spoke of Frodo Baggins.  He was not as promiscuous as most unmarried hobbits his age, and those he favored tended to be less than usually concerned with others' opinions, but as young hobbit lasses will talk, word had gotten about.  There was something he did that was different from other hobbit lads.  She had been told what it was through embarrassed giggles and crimson-flushed lips, but she was not at all prepared for the actuality.  

He placed both his hands on her hips and held her more firmly than he had yet done.  That touch alone was stirring.  Rose felt commanded, taken, and absolutely unable to resist.  She gasped as she felt his kisses, sure and languid, trail inexorably down her belly.  Kiss after gentle kiss, in an unbroken line.  He was not stopping.  She drew an astonished breath as the next kiss tracked onto electrified skin and her body began to realize where the pattern of his attentions was leading.  She jumped, her body tensing like a terrified rabbit as the next kiss landed.  Now she understood his death grip on her hips.  The next kiss made her buck wildly and had he not held her so tightly, her motions would have thrown her from the bed.  As it was she had no choice but to endure the unbelievable as he moved lower and lower…

And suddenly he was between her thighs, pushing them gently apart, his lips teasing her flesh and his artful tongue probing her in a way no other had ever done before.  Lightning streaked through her loins and fire erupted in her brain.  Her head slammed back against the pillows and her hips heaved up.  This was unlike anything she had ever experienced.  Her body was on fire and every nerve ending crackled with light.  She would have cried out but she was beyond speech. She bucked again unable to control her seething body but Frodo held her tight, his strong, nimble fingers digging into her hips as he dove deeper.  There was no build up.  Rose felt herself consumed by a wave of sensation that rose screaming from her deepest depths.  It overwhelmed her before she could even anticipate it and the cry she had not been able to utter before ground from her lips.  It rose to a scream the like of which she had never uttered in her life and still he held her.  Light exploded behind her eyes and her hips started to thrust so hard into him that he could no longer continue.  It didn't matter anymore anyway - her body was humming powerfully in the throes of complete and utter bliss.  She didn't even notice that he had stopped until she became aware he had joined her on the bed, sliding up alongside her, and slipping his arms around her quaking body.

She was shuddering violently, as if from bitter cold, but she was flushed and warm.  The flame of passion that had ripped through her was fading to an aching glow, and she turned to look in awe at Frodo.  His eyes were dark and liquid and he looked almost coy as he peered at her through a mussed tangle of dark curls.  The smile on his lips was satisfied and knowing, but still hungry and feral.  Rose's stupefied expression in answer obviously pleased him.  She could find no words to speak and only lay gasping like a fish.  He placed a playful bite on her shoulder and Rose laughed out loud with delight.  

"Your pleasure is enchanting, sweet Rose," he whispered, his smile broadening.  "Like sunlit fields of the fertile Shire.  Now let me share mine with you, if I may."

At that, he slid slowly beneath the sheets, softly raising himself up to lay his body over her.  She still shivered but his unrelenting sensual progress was warming her again.  She closed her eyes in delicious anticipation as he slid between her legs and arched her back as he slipped an arm under her waist to lift her up.  Then she could feel what had only been rumor before.  He was hard and firm pressed up against her still enflamed depths and though she had only moments before experienced a consummation of unbelievable intensity, she felt the heat in her belly beginning to build again.  He pushed… but only a little and her body tingled with fire to feel him at her threshold, ready and focused.  The fevered urgency in him had slowed to deliberate purpose.  He paused and looked into her eyes.

Such intensity was mirrored in his that Rose could not look away.  It shocked her to see sorrow there too, and regret, and a million other things she could not fathom.  It was as if she were looking into his deepest heart and finding that that only scratched the surface of his true being.  All at once Rose understood why this hobbit could inspire Samwise to follow him to Crickhollow and away from his family and hope of a sweetheart.  At that moment and if she had had leave to, she would have done likewise.  The nobility of his spirit could not be denied.

He moved, and slowly, bit by bit, holding her eyes with his, pushed his way within her.  Rose's body jerked and spasmed but she held to his steadfast eyes, accepting him within her trembling body with every ounce of her strength and will.  He ground deep into her and at last closed his mesmerizing eyes to groan with pleasure.  Slowly his hips flexed and he arched out only to thrust back slowly again.  If his earlier attentions had rocketed her to climax, this agonizingly slow progress was designed to take her there by a sure and steady course.  She sighed and relaxed into his rhythm, rocking easily to meet each gentle stroke, riding a ripple of delight instead of a flood of intensity.  Each sensual movement a gentle guide that coaxed her already roused body back to the precipice of fulfillment.  She almost sang with joy at the easy pleasure of it.  

Her senses filled with the essence of him above and within her.  He smelled of ink and chamomile, leather and honey, ale and cinnamon, …and another hard, rousing musk that was intimately Frodo.  Rose drew the scent into herself, letting it pervade her memory of this night.  This was a part of him he shared with no one - except now, her.  This perfume of dark hair and crystal blue eyes would be hers to cherish.  Even if she were never to be privy to it again in her life, this essence would be her treasure for as long as she lived.  

Her ardor was rising and her mind was awash with color and sensation. She lost all awareness of time.  It seemed as if he held her suspended in a wondrous rapture for hours as waves of pleasure crested ever higher within her.  Hard yet soft, and quick yet deliberate he kept a flawless control of himself.  She sensed the power coursing through his frame and knew she was defenseless against it.  This slow pleasure-filled dance was building a frenzy that would completely consume her, and still she begged for him to continue.  

She realized he was kissing her neck with an increasing urgency.  Tender bites interwove his lips' ministrations and soft, hungry groans punctuated his sweet breath.  He lay softly upon her, his body supported on his elbows and his arms wrapped under her shoulders.  His hands gripped her with trembling iron fingers and he arched, pulling himself deep into her.  He was quickening.  He groaned and the haunted, yearning, animal sound resonated through both their sweating bodies.  With a mighty arch he suddenly drove himself hard inside her and before she could even gasp at the forcefulness of the thrust, he did so again, and again.  What had begun slow was becoming a blistering, writhing, frenzied onslaught.  Roaring and light filled her mind.  She gave in to his ardor eagerly and completely.  

He began to slam into her with wild, joyful abandon and her body bucked and heaved up to meet him.  Delving deep, his trim, muscular hips fulfilled their promise of quickness and his arms drew her even harder against him.  She might have been screaming, or perhaps that hungry cry was his voice, she did not know.  All she understood was that she had no control over it.  He was taking his pleasure unrestrainedly and she reeled with every delicious staccato thrust.  

A bellow of lust erupted from him and Rose felt warmth spread within her as his creamy seed filled her womb.  His release undid her completely and the rising swell of her second climax broke over her in a wave of pulsating heat.  This was no blaze of swift flame, but an inferno that filled her to fingertips and beyond.  She felt herself swelling to receive him, opening to welcome his gift and falling into a shower of blazing stars.  Each bright point seared her with a different kind of fire, like gems tossed into a sunlit sky.  Here a topaz flame, here emerald, and there a diamond that burned into her soul.  Another wave overwhelmed her and another built behind it.  She was drowning, unable to even breathe as her body took all it could of him into itself.  

Sweetness.  The sensation was like honey spread on just-baked bread, or the soft whir of bees in a summer garden.  Joy filled her heart and she opened her eyes to look up at her lover.  Sweet agony still gripped him and the look on his face burned itself into her memory.  He was come.  He was filled as completely as she had been.  He ached as she did with a supreme ecstasy that buried his senses and lifted the soul.  Rose could not help but weep to see this lovely, perfect creature striving blissfully into her body.  From him she had taken pleasure and now she knew she had given it back to him in full measure.  There had never been a gift she had been more delighted to give.

Somehow she had wrapped her legs around him, milking the last drop of his goodness perhaps, and now she tenderly relaxed her hold.  He sighed, trembling in his turn and dropped wearily onto her.  Rose wrapped her arms tight about him and held his body close.  His heart was beating hard and fast and his belly fluttered against hers.  He began to shake but she held him until it eased and she felt him soften within her.  She could hear the night-sounds outside his bedroom again, punctuated by his heavy but slowing breath. All was peaceful, almost as if her world had not just been an explosion of light.  She kissed his elegantly pointed ear and stroked his dark curls as contentment and comfort replaced the fading fire and when gentle sleep stole over them both, she welcomed it as well.

~*~

TBC

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	3. Autumn's Requiem Chapter 3

Title:  Autumn's Requiem

Author:  Aratlithiel and Ariel

Summary:  A 'what if' Frodo/Rosie romance

Category:  Angst/Romance

Rating:  PG-13 thru R

June 20, 2003

~*~

A/N – Concept by Aratlithiel, writing by Aratlithiel and Ariel

Autumn's Requiem – Part 2 of the 'Seasons in the Shire' Trilogy

~*~

~Chapter 3~

Rated: PG-13

Rose woke to a stream of sunlight through the open curtain and the sound of the doorknob twisting in its casing.  She lay perfectly still beneath the soft weight of the down coverlet and the possessive arm about her waist.  Her heart beat a little faster and she held her breath, thanking the stars that she had had enough wits about her the night before to pull the catch.  Sam finding her shawl hanging from a peg in Mr. Baggins' hallway was one thing, but actually finding her in his bed with nothing on her naked skin but Mr. Baggins himself would have been entirely another.  Whether Samwise had decided she was not his cup of tea after all or not, she had no wish to hurt him by exposing to him her illicit evening activities with his master.

There was a soft knock and Sam's muffled voice came through the door.  "Mr. Frodo?  Are you up, sir?"

Frodo stirred beside her and lifted his head from where it had been resting in the nest of her hair.  "Good morning, Sam.  I'm afraid I've had a sleepless night," he said as his eyes caught Rose's and danced a little in the soft gold of the early morning light.  "I think I'll stay in a bit today if you don't mind."

"'Course not, sir," came the reply.  "I'll be in the garden if you decide you'll be wanting a bit of breakfast.  Just call out, sir."

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo answered and Rose could hear Sam's soft steps retreating down the hall.

Rose breathed a light sigh of relief and mused to herself that Sam's voice seemed to have had a slight tone of mirth to it.  He probably knew exactly why his master had had a sleepless night.  Rose found herself wondering if anyone had thought to ask the discreet gardener of Bag End the whereabouts of one Miss Pearl Took during the three days of her scandalous absence.  Sam's innocent reply that he had no idea where the lass might have stashed herself would have held that same amused tone.  She thanked the stars that this time Sam truly had no idea who might have been the cause of his master's feigned bout with insomnia.

Frodo shifted beside her and leaned to place a soft kiss on her lips while under the warmth of the coverlet his fingertips wandered in slow circles about her waist and sides.  Rose tensed a bit at the easy touch and he drew his head back to catch her eyes.

"Good morning, Rose," he said quietly, his brow slightly furrowed.

Her returning smile was small and a little embarrassed.  "Good morning, sir," she replied.

Frodo looked at her for a long moment, a small, chagrined smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  He pulled back a little more and propped himself on his elbow, his head resting in his hand.

"Ah," he said, the hint of disapproval in his voice belying the easy sweetness of his face.  "I see we're back to 'sir' again."

Rose said nothing, only looked at him with a growing sense of discomfort.  The evening had been the most amazing of her life.  It had left her with a sweet fulfillment she had not dared dream possible let alone entertain the notion that she could have felt that way herself.  The things he had done to her were beyond description and when they lay together afterwards, spent and exhausted, the vastly ridiculous fantasy had flitted through her head of a lifetime of nights snuggled under this very coverlet with the warmth of this hobbit embracing her.  Wouldn't that give the wagging tongues of Hobbiton something new to flap about!  A lovely dream it was, that it could be possible to overcome differences in station and background and become the mistress of his smial.  A lovely dream, yes - until the doorknob had turned and Rose was made fully aware of who had been on the other end of it.

The reality of her situation came crashing down on her.  The thought of the hurt and pain in Sam's eyes should he discover that she had seduced his master and allowed herself to be seduced in turn was more than she could bear to think about.  Last night's magical experience was her treasure and she refused to allow the wanderings of her silly mind to sully it, but she could not now help feeling the tiniest sliver of apprehension imagining what it would cost Sam if he ever found out.

A single tear slid from the corner of her eye and she felt a gentle finger lightly sweep it away.

"Rose?" Frodo asked.  "What is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, clenching her eyes shut to prevent more foolish tears, "It's only…oh, sir-"

"Here now," Frodo interrupted, his voice gentle but a touch stern.  "I'll not have you lying naked in my bed and calling me 'sir.'  I thought we'd agreed on that."

She couldn't help a laugh at the light jest and opened her eyes to drink him in.  She had thought him lovely last night with the rosy glow of the firelight and his own passion coloring his skin.  He was just as beautiful with the strengthening beam of sunlight caressing his face and turning his dark hair a warm russet with its heated rays.  A lovely dream, yes…but only that.

"I am sorry," she said.  "Truly.  It's only that when I heard Sam's voice I…I don't know, I…I wouldn't hurt him for the world is all."

Frodo continued to look closely at her, troubled.  "Neither would I," he said slowly.  "Perhaps you could tell me how your courtship came to an end."

Rose let out a heavy sigh.  "That's just it, you see," she said, her tone exasperated and her face pulled into a sudden frown.  She turned her gaze to the rounded ceiling.  "It didn't exactly come to an end - more like it just…ended if, you understand me."

"No," said Frodo, his troubled countenance deepening, but his voice maintaining its softness and soothing quality.  "I'm afraid I _don't_ understand.  What do you mean?"

"Well," said Rose, trying to frame her thoughts so that it would not appear that she blamed Frodo for Sam's gradual withdrawal, "Things were well up until the spring came and went.  Then Sam seemed to find one excuse after another to not come calling.  Finally even the excuses stopped and he just…just quit coming altogether.  I thought at first that maybe you were keeping him extra busy, what with your move and all, but even the clearing out of Bag End wouldn't need that much of his time.  Maybe he's turned his eye to some Buckland lass, or he's just plain grown tired of me.  I just don't rightly know," she finished, lifting her eyes to Frodo.

Frodo seemed to pale a bit and his gaze drifted over her shoulder to fix upon a point seeming a hundred miles away.  His face fell and took on a blank expression that Rose immediately decided she didn't like one little bit.  He closed his eyes and let out a low moan.

Rose was startled at his reaction and propped herself up on her own elbow until her damp eyes were even with his closed ones.

"Sir?" she said, concerned.  She hadn't meant to cause him such distress and couldn't fathom what she had said to upset him so.  "Mister Baggins, sir, what is it?  What have I said?"

He opened his eyes and they drifted to hers but there was no light in them and they seemed to look right through her as if she wasn't there.  He dropped his head to the pillow and rolled onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes.  He lay very still and the sudden quiet of the room was broken only by Rose's small, rapid breaths and the sweet sound of birdsong lilting in from the garden where Sam was beginning his chores for the day.  The silence spun out, making the air heavy and her blood thump unpleasantly in her ears.  Frodo was still and unmoving for long enough that Rose began to wonder if he had drifted back to sleep.

"I see now," he whispered suddenly, his voice holding a slight tremor and a sad resignation that pained her heart.  "I should have inquired further last night."  He didn't shift or move his arm.  "I am truly sorry.  I understand now."

"Understand?" she asked. "Understand what, sir?"  She lifted her hand to touch his arm and he flinched - almost imperceptibly, but enough for her to draw her hand back with a start.  "Mr. Baggins, please sir," she said, worried now that she had said something terribly wrong.  "Whatever I said, sir, I didn't mean to-"

"Not to worry, dear Rose," he said quietly from beneath the shelter of his arm.  The sadness in his voice was enough to tear at her heart and make her curse herself for whatever she had said to upset him so.  Of all the things in the world she wanted, hurting this miraculous hobbit who had given her so much in just a few short, blissful hours was certainly not one of them.  She closed her eyes and, fisting her hand, pressed it hard to her lips, pushing painfully against the sob that wanted to escape.

"Wait for him, Rose," he said.

His voice in the oppressive quiet of the room startled her and she opened her eyes with a small gasp to see that he had removed his arm and was staring intently at her.  His eyes were glittering and wide and there was a sense of urgent regret behind them.

"What, sir?" she asked, although she had heard perfectly what he had said.

"I said wait for him, Rose," he repeated, reaching his hand up to stroke her cheek gently.  "You may hear rumors and tales in the coming weeks and you may feel that there's no hope at all in seeing him again.  But wait for him.  For as long as you can."  He dropped his hand from her face and sat up, looking into her eyes with a burning intensity for a moment before he reached to draw her into a firm embrace.  "I promise," he said into her hair, "that if it is within my power, I shall bring him back to you whole and unscathed."

She was still for a moment, not understanding but allowing him to draw her close and place her head on his shoulder.  She breathed in deep, emblazoning his scent and the feel of his strong arms around her into her memory; his fingers in her hair, his breath on her shoulder, his heart beating against hers.  She lifted her arms to wrap them around his waist and closed her eyes, savoring his warmth and thanking him silently for the gift of his love - however brief, and the hope - however small and inexplicable, he had bestowed upon her in the last moments of their magical time together.

~*~

_'Wait for him, Rose,'_ Frodo had said and so she did.  Only it wasn't just Sam she waited for and thought about over the long difficult year.  She waited for him as well.  She often found her thoughts drifting back to that early September evening, so filled with passion and magic that it sometimes seemed more like to a dream than anything she had actually lived.  And the following morning he had whispered a promise in her ear; _'Wait for him.'_

She had soon learned that he had gone not just to Buckland - but Away…Beyond.  And had taken Samwise with him.  They had disappeared into the night to the echoes of warning bells ringing throughout Buckland and Fatty Bolger's panicked cries and rumors of Big People skulking in the darkness of the September twilight.  Now they were both gone, and Rose had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead or would ever return.  _Either _of them.  

_'Wait for him.'_

_And what of you?_ she sometimes thought.  _Who is waiting for you?_  But Rose's own swirling thoughts would often answer that question for her with a mix of a soft, tender love and a spreading heat through her loins - she was waiting for him, of course.  

Silly fantasies of discarding stations notwithstanding, Rose understood that she loved Frodo Baggins and whether he ever knew it or not or returned her love was beside the point.  It was a different kind of love than she had for Samwise but none the less for that.  She often wondered, when she lay alone in her bed at night, her father pacing to and fro in the kitchen and her mother worrying after him, while they both worried over the ruffians threatening their home and the seeming indifference of their fellow hobbits.  She often wondered if given a choice, which she would choose.  And then she would laugh at the absurdity of her thoughts;  a choice - _ha_!  That she had a choice was a fantasy just as silly as the ones she entertained about being the wife of a gentlehobbit - but one that continued to visit and torment her through the long months of the Travelers' absence.

And the worst part about this soothing/torturous dream was that she really didn't know which way she would choose if given the opportunity.  She had loved Sam for years and before her world had begun to unwind last spring, had been certain that she wished for nothing more than to live and sleep beside him for the rest of her days.  But then September had come along and with it the wonder that was Frodo Baggins.  He had awoken passions and deeper, undeniable feelings in her that she could not disavow.  She was no longer sure she could live the rest of her life without his touch against her skin and his breath in her hair.

It was a choice she could not lay claim to, but one that continued to pain her as the months went endlessly on.

_'Wait for him, Rose.'_

And so she waited, not entirely sure which of them she waited for more eagerly.

Then came November with horns of battle ringing in the autumn air and the arrival of Samwise Gamgee on her father's porch.  Rose had been overjoyed beyond words to see him in his foreign attire, gazing at her steadily in the chill of the night and the orange glow of the torchlight, looking a little hardened and careworn, but still Samwise Gamgee.  She had been overjoyed to see him - but had found herself looking over his shoulder for another as he greeted her with a breathless 'Hullo, Rosie,' and then hurried off to rejoin his master for the battle that was brewing.

She had seen him finally when Sam brought him to the door late that night and knew at once that, choices or no, her decision was made and irrevocable.  She reached out in her mind's eye and grasped firmly to Samwise, winding her heart about him and casting aside any delusions she may have entertained about the broken creature that was once Frodo Baggins.

Both of them had been Away, yes…but only one had truly come back.

The sight of him had frightened her as he sat by the firelight in her mother's kitchen, looking more like a cold shadow than the warm, passionate hobbit she had known so briefly.  He was ashen and thin and the light of his eyes that had so captured her and set her heart to blaze was deadened and hidden behind a shroud of age and care.  Yet there was a new light that shone through him, blinding and dreadful in its terrifying beauty.  Rose could not fathom what horrors he had seen to change him so and decided the instant that those empty, ageless eyes had fastened upon her own that she didn't want to know.  She had seen his unfathomable pain and terrible wisdom and turned from it, unable to stop herself but ashamed that she did so.  She knew she would never have the strength to try to call him back from the black places his heart dwelt.  And she shrank from the appalling, depthless beauty that the bleak, hopeless road had marked indelibly on his soul.

She found herself wondering if Sam's efforts at keeping his master alive had been a mercy or not.

Later that night, as the others prepared themselves for the confrontation they planned for the early morning hours, Rose went to her narrow bed and wept her grief onto the indifferent linen of her pillowcase, mourning the loss of Frodo Baggins and wondering if anyone else shared her sorrow at the demise of a soul so precious.  

She cast her heart back to Samwise, her childhood love and protector of all things smaller than himself.  If he would have her, if he spoke, she would say yes and be happy with the life she did not deserve but he would offer anyway.  She would burn the image of the warm, living Frodo of last September into her soul, put it away in the safety of her memory and keep the secret deep in her heart where it would hurt and torment no one but herself.  

She would cling to Sam, the Traveler who had come back whole.

Rose was a practical girl, after all.

~*~

TBC

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	4. Autumn's Requiem Chapter 4

Title:  Autumn's Requiem

Author:  Aratlithiel and Ariel

Summary:  A 'what if' Frodo/Rosie romance

Category:  Angst/Romance

Rating:  PG-13 thru R

June 20, 2003

~*~

A/N – Concept by Aratlithiel, writing by Aratlithiel and Ariel

Autumn's Requiem – Part 2 of the 'Seasons in the Shire' Trilogy

~*~

~Chapter 4~

Rated: PG-13

"There's somethin' the matter with that Mr. Frodo."  Farmer Cotton announced as he came into the warm kitchen.  "He's mutterin' somethin' about dark things and clutchin' that fancy necklace o' his.  It don't look like he's slept a wink all night, s'far as I can tell, and he looks a fright."  The hobbit looked to his wife and daughter and jerked a head back over his shoulder towards the bedroom that Frodo Baggins was using.  "Could you go and take a look, Lily?" he asked his wife.  Rose set down the dishes she'd been carrying and stepped forward.

"I'll take a look-in on him, Da.  If you don't mind?"

"She knows her herbs as well as me, Tol." nodded Lily Cotton.  "Let her take a peek.  There's no harm in it.  Maybe a pretty lass'll bring him 'round quicker than my old mug a-starin' down at him."  She winked at her daughter.

Tolman nodded and smiled though the worry never left his face.  "You go see what you can do for 'im, Rosie-lass."

~*~

After a knock or two went unanswered, Rose pushed the round door open and peeked inside the Cotton's best bedroom.  Her parents had given it up for their guest, as Mr. Frodo's beautiful home was still in a horrible state, and wouldn't be in any sort of condition to live in for a while yet.  The room was quite bright from the spring sun that streamed in the large round window and the fire that her father had obviously just roused, but it took her a moment to pick out Frodo even in the well-lit room.  He lay quite motionless in a wash of bright sunlight, his body almost as pale as the white nightshirt and sheets that were tumbled around him.  The comforter had been kicked to the edge of the bed, suggesting the occupant had shown more animation than he presently did.  Rose crept forward, alarmed and nervous to see him so indisposed, but it wasn't until she got close enough to see his face clearly that her heart froze in her chest.

There was no light in his eyes.  

The crystal blue spheres that had enchanted her a year ago and a world away were open and staring lifelessly at the dark beamed ceiling.  They looked clouded, vacant and fixed horrifyingly still.  Rose stumbled closer, hardly daring to breathe.

"Mr. Frodo, sir?" she whispered, dreading what she might find.  He did not respond, but Rose was close enough by then to note the slight rise and uneven and fall of his chest as he breathed.  Relief washed over her and she thanked whatever spirit remained in him that he still lived.  He might have been but a haunted shadow of his former self, but Sam would be beside himself if anything happened, and she would shed tears as bitter to see Sam hurt so as she would for Mr. Frodo himself.  "Me dear sir, what's wrong?  Can you hear me?"  She laid a gentle hand against his unresponsive cheek and was shocked to feel how cold it was.  She quickly leaned over him and straightened the covers over his chill body.  "You'll catch your death, sir, sleeping like that.  Let's just get you all warmed up, shall we?"  She tucked the comforter around him snuggly, as she would have a small child she was sending to bed, but still he stared blankly, unmoved by her tending.  Rose sighed and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.  His right hand lay on top of the quilt where she'd lain it and the fine pale fingers were limply arrayed across the cream colored fabric.  Rose had a sudden vision of that same hand, whole and un-mutilated, poised elegantly over the collar of his shirt.  The juxtaposition of the two images, one healthy, whole and seductive, the other pale, broken and pitiful pierced her heart.  She had made her choice, Samwise, and knew the rightness of it, but she had also known this hobbit at his peak of glory.  Pity welled up inside her but it was no longer pity for herself and the fanciful dream she had once entertained.  This was pity for him and for all of her people.  He had been a jewel, a treasure of nobility, honor and passion, and now he was a charred husk whose fire burned low under a mantle of ash.  Hobbitkind would likely never know how much they had lost in this one brave and beautiful soul.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, sir, please…"  Tears came to her eyes and Rose put her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her.  "Please speak.  Tell me what ails you.  I'll try and put it right.  Oh, please, sir!" she sobbed.  His dim eyes looked right through her and his rich, soft mouth was slack.  Oh, how she remembered the way those lips had danced on hers!  How they had trembled and stroked ever so tenderly and how their most intimate touch had fulfilled her with searing fire.  They were pale now and dull, and Rose wept for the glory that seemed naught but a treasured memory.  She bent, and still weeping, kissed his unresponsive mouth.  

Her parents would have been appalled at her impropriety, her seeming lack of respect for one they considered an honored guest, but her kiss was one of reverence, not passion, and as her tears fell upon his face and her lips left their tender warmth on his pale and wasted ones, he blinked and slowly focused faded eyes on her.  Sorrow and despair filled them but he had no strength to speak.  He could only rest wearily against her hands and look into her face above him.  Where his eyes had once held a twinkling dance of fire, there was now only the emptiness and pain.  Where once she had been privy to the depths of his soul, she now saw that those reaches had been plundered, stripped bare and forsaken.  His pain seared her with an aching sorrow.  She could do nothing for this greater evil but weep for him, but perhaps, if it were not so terrible a malady, she could tend his current complaint.  

Necessity galvanized her.  She laid his head down and wiped her eyes, setting aside her pity for the moment to focus on the task at hand.  His skin had been cold; there was no fever, but his eyes looked as if he had drifted into delirium again.  He clutched spasmodically at the coverlet with his injured hand and began to kick his legs feebly.  

"Shush, sir.  You lie quiet and easy.  Rose'll make all to rights."  She stroked his cheek, but he did not seem to hear her.  Hers was not a familiar enough voice to break through his confusion, but Sam was away in the Southfarthing and was not expected back for a fortnight.  There was nothing for that either.  Her touch might not be as well known to him, but it was loving too, and though it trembled with awe and the regret of a remembered passion, it was no less nurturing for it.  She stroked his hair, now shot with silver, and hummed a tune her mother used to sing to her when she was naught but a babe.  At last he quieted enough for Rose to leave him.  She went for her mother and help.

~*~

The evening was, to say the least, a trial.  It took the determined efforts of Rose and Lily Cotton, with help from Tolman and her brother Jolly, to get Mr. Frodo settled that night.  After the morning's coolness, a fever rose in him and he became agitated and almost combative.  He would let none touch him, and groped desperately among the bed sheets as though for something he had lost.  When at last Jolly got hold of him, the older hobbit screamed weakly and seemed to collapse, his fevered eyes rolling back in his head and his wasted form quivering in the younger one's arms.  Jolly apologized profusely for having manhandled Mr. Frodo so, though the older hobbit was in no condition to either notice or take offense at the treatment.  He was becoming weaker and the fever, which seemed to originate at a lump at the base of his neck, was consuming his reason.  He quit his struggling and, as Jolly laid him down on the bed, began to sob softly.  The piteous sound tore at Rose's heart.  It was the cry of a child forlorn or of one who has lost everything he ever loved.  The cry ran down those dark paths he had trod and brought back their horror afresh.  Even if Rose were to take him into her arms, as the cries made her ache to do but which the presence of her mother and Jolly forbade, she knew she could still not mend this rip in his being.  This damage ran too deep for anyone to ease.

As the long night passed, they comforted him as best they could.  In brief moments of lucidity he denied needing a doctor, claiming in fevered whispers that the finest healer in the world had not been able to cure what ailed him.  At other times, he would murmur plaintively in his delirium - snatches of old rhymes, and murmurings about haunted echoes along empty streets of stone.  Through all his broken ramblings lay a thread of loneliness.  It was a theme that tied them all together and Rose's heart broke to hear it.  Loneliness must have been a very private sorrow for him because he had never, in her memory or experience, even hinted that he was troubled by it.   She would respect his privacy and never allow that she knew, but the fact that he kept so much heartache inside himself, hidden from those who loved him and would be hurt by it, humbled her.  She might have once turned to Frodo in need and curiosity, and felt heat and desire for his return, but the more she knew and learned, the more she revered and honored him.  She would never again feel his magical touch on her body, but that mattered little.  Her only desire now was to give back what she could to this dearest of hobbits.

Slivers of precious ice kept him hydrated, and sponge baths with mint water kept him cool.  At first, Lily Cotton was none too sure about having Rose in the room when it came time to bathe Mr. Frodo down, but as it was obvious that he was too delirious to remember such embarrassments, Lily acquiesced.  From the way the fever raged through him, it was also obvious they would need all the knowledgeable hands they could get to pull him through this trial.  They stripped off his nightshirt and Jolly moved his limp body to a cot overlain with towels before the fireplace.  In the red glow of the tended fire, his form glowed about the edges.  _Just as it had that night_, Rose thought.  She laid the sheet gently over him and crouched at the side of the cot.  She slipped another sliver of ice into his fevered mouth and stroked his cheek tenderly as he mumbled his thanks.  The poignant smile she gave him in answer was meant for him alone, but Lily Cotton saw it.  She watched the two of them silently for a moment, and then, deciding, told Jolly they would be all right from here out and that he should go see what help his father needed.  Rose looked up at her mother's words and was about to ask how the two of them would manage to get Mr. Frodo back into his freshly changed bed when she saw the look in her mother's eyes.  For a moment mother and daughter stared at each other in silence.  Rose, finding new strength in the purity of her feelings, looked back unapologetically.  She might have betrayed her familiarity with the master of Bag End, but there was no shame in the way she now felt.  She waited until her mother sighed and looked away.

"Does Sam know?" was all the older hobbit asked.  Rose looked down at her patient.  His eyes were open just a crack and they rolled restlessly under sweat dampened lashes, reflecting the leaping flames with their faintly glittering movements.  She smiled sadly at him again, glad she would not have to hide her affection from her mother any longer.  

"No," she breathed.  "Leastways, not about that part of it.  And there's no call he should have to.  'Twas nothin' but a fancy o' mine when I thought Sam'd lost interest in calling.  Mr. Frodo was a dear, and a gentlehobbit indeed, but it was no more than a kindness to us both and that was the end of it.  I'll bind myself to Sam with no regrets." 

Lily was silent, studying her daughter for a long while as if trying to determine the truthfulness of her talk.  "Girl, I've seen love before," she countered.  "And that's what I'm seein' now.  Don't lie to yourself, or that sweet lad you're leadin' along."

Rose shook her head sadly.  "Mum,... " she sighed.  "I do love Mr. Frodo, but it's not that kind of love anymore.  He's as far past needing that as the stars are above my head, but he's done me a kindness; and I'll probably always love him for it.  He's brought my Sam back and tied us together right and proper.  We both love this old dear so much, we'll be happy the rest of our lives just to please him!"  Rose laughed sadly.  "How could I not love him for that?"  Her mother still looked skeptical and Rose shook her head.  "Mum, he's torn himself up inside to get Sam back to me.  How can I throw that away?"  

At last Lily nodded.

"Aye, he's had a cruel time, and no mistake," she agreed.  "And he was terrible fine once, he was."  Lily smiled down on Frodo with tender pity as well.  "Lor, don't look so shocked, girl!" she answered to Rose's surprised look.  "I've eyes in my head!" she retorted with cultured brightness. "I may not have acted on it, but I noticed Mr. Baggins in my day too.  There weren't a finer lad to look at in all of Hobbiton."  She leaned over and patted his arm soothingly.  "We'll take good care of him and he'll bounce back right as rain."  

Rosie nodded, grateful for her mother's light words.  She understood - at least well enough - and accepted in the easy manner of their people.  They would not need to speak of it again.  

They set to with mint water, bathing Frodo's fevered face, running the soft cloth down the curve of his neck and over the smooth and elegant chest.  Rose brushed wet and wondering fingers over the small scar that was raised in the hollow of his shoulder.  Hard, it seemed, and colder than the rest of his fevered body.  He whimpered when she touched it, but did not wake from the troubled daze he had fallen into.  She trailed a soft cloth down his lean and wiry arms and, taking his hands, devotedly bathed his upturned palms.  His chest was flushed a rosy hue from fever, but she remembered how it had done so with passion once.  She gently wiped him down, remembering the feel of his nipples hardening in her mouth and the touch of his silky skin bare against hers.  His body was still sweet but older now, so much older. 

She bathed his thighs and noted how lean they had become.  She had thought him firm and strong before, but his journey had made him iron; hard but oh so brittle.  She dipped her rag in the cool water again and touched it to his fevered belly.  Its muscles jumped and quivered in surprise and her thoughts leapt back to the way they had danced against her own such a long year ago.  She laid her cool hand against his skin and whispered soothing words to calm him as she turned him onto his side.  There, along his ribs she felt the smooth line of a scar and the uneven hump of a broken bone that had healed badly.  The tender landscape of his body spoke of torments endured as eloquently as did his ageless eyes.  Rose wet his fevered back, not noticing her tears were still falling.

"Aye, a cruel time..." Lily breathed as she took the rag from her daughter and finished the job.

~*~

The fever broke by dawn.  Lily left Rose by Frodo's bedside so that she could get some breakfast ready.  Satisfied that he was at ease, Rose laid her head beside him on the bed and was sleeping but a moment later.  Soft fingertips gently stroking the curls away from her face woke her much later in the morning and she looked up to see Frodo looking at her with tired but clear eyes.  She blinked.  The March sunlight streamed into the room, surrounding him with its fresh spring glow.  He looked almost unreal to her sleep-filled eyes, like a creature out of myth.  She broke into a smile and stifled a relieved sob before taking his hand and holding it tight against her cheek.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo," she cried.  "You worried us right and proper."  Her smile broadened and she squeezed the hand.  "Sam'd have our hides if anything happened to you!"  Her eyes twinkled merrily and she knew he understood the deeper meaning of her simple words.

"Then, for your sakes, I am glad to have recovered."  His voice was a weakened whisper, but at least it was lucid again.  "Your fellow has a sword now, Rose, and he's learned the use of it.  I'd not want him in wroth at one whose memory kept him going through many dark trials."

A shadow crossed her features and Rose blinked, trying to keep back the tears that threatened.  She let go his hand and sat up, pulling herself together.  In Frodo's bright eyes was the darkness she had turned from, the horror that seemed to have swallowed him whole.  His sweet body was not the only thing that had scars.

"Aye," she sighed.  "You said 'wait for him' and so I did.  You brought him back to me whole and a bit more, maybe.  He's the same fellow as he was, but there's a spark there now that wasn't there before.  A fire."  Rose looked down, blushing.  "He's got something in him now that… well, that reminds me of you."  She glanced up at Frodo with an even gaze.  "I'm glad you've brought him back to me, Mr. Frodo and he'll make a fine husband.  I only wish you'd brought yourself back as well."

Frodo's smile faded and he returned her even stare.  The shadow of despair in Frodo's eyes swelled till it seemed to swallow his whole being.  Rosie could almost not bear to look at it.  

"I didn't bring Sam back…" Frodo whispered.  "He brought me.  I was used up, burned away.  I could help no one.  He's the one who had the strength, Rosie.  Not me.  In the end, I had nothing left."  He closed his eyes against the sunlight and sighed.

"You're forgetting, Mr. Frodo, I know better," she returned in the same soft tone.  "I've seen your strength and the fire that's in you up close and proper.  Sakes, I almost got burned by it!  You're the finest gentlehobbit I've ever known, Sir.  I know why Sam followed you and I know why he loves you.  Anyone who had eyes could see it.  And because I know what kind of strength you had, it makes me right scared of what was strong enough to break you."  She drew a breath.  Frodo's eyes remained closed but there was strain evident in his features as he listened to her words.  "I don't rightly understand why you went away, Sir, but I know it was important else you'd not have gone.  And whatever it was was important enough that you let yourself be swallowed up whole for it."  She paused again, studying his pale, tired face.  "My Sam's a strong lad, that I know, but if what you two tangled with was horrible enough to do this to you, it would have destroyed him too.  I don't doubt it for a second.  You stood in its way and protected him.  That's as plain as day… to me at least, and that took courage sir, and strength."  She waited, letting her words settle into his mind and watching the little crease in his brow slowly ease.  Rose had gone from curiosity to awe to lust and longing for this sweet hobbit, but what she felt now was love; the kind that expected nothing, that only wanted to see the light return to his eyes.  Though she ached to see him happy once again, she knew in her heart it would take more than either she or Sam had within them to accomplish it.  A force darker than any she could imagine had taken his joy and it would take something more powerful than she could dream to bring it back.  

"You know," he whispered at last.  "I did not realize until that next morning that Sam had pushed you away only because he purposed to accompany me on my dark path.  He feared he may not return to you and wanted you to feel you were free find another.  It takes someone with a great heart and profound love to do something like that for the one he loves."  He paused for a moment, seeming to gather strength to go on.  "I never would have brought you home with me that night if I'd known, but I can't regret it."  He opened his eyes and smiled at her.  "When I'd finally got up the courage to do what I had to, I tried to leave Sam behind and continue alone - because I knew what he had waiting for him here.  He wouldn't let me."  Frodo shifted, trying to sit up a little in the bed.  "He has become very dear to me, Rose, more so than I ever imagined.  I would do anything to ensure his happiness.  You are a good lass, but Sam deserves someone's whole heart.  Can you give that to him?"  

He was still weak and his arms trembled as he propped himself up to look earnestly at her.  Rose nodded.  "Aye, I can," she assured him.  "I can't say as the thought didn't enter my head, Mr. Frodo, but I've got sense too.  You're a sweet lover, and no mistake, but even before you got back, I knew which way I'd have to choose.  And then when I saw you again…" she looked down and frowned.  "…I knew."  She looked up again.  "You're strong, Mr. Frodo, and so is my Sam, but I'm not strong enough to cure what ails you.  I need someone who's going to give me a future, sir…."  She paused and looked down, her throat constricting with tears.  "And that's not you," she finished in a tight whisper.  Rose felt the tears flowing down her cheeks and let them come.  "I do love you, sir, but not the way you fear.  I love you as the finest hobbit I've ever known, as somebody who's gone and done something out of the kindness of his heart that nobody'd ever be able to repay him for.  I love you as my Sam's dearest friend… and as the keeper of that spirit you let me touch hold of once.  I'll always treasure that you gave me that, sir, no matter how long I live, but I'll never need to see it again.  I'm happy with what I've got."

"And Sam need never know of it."  It was not a question.

Rose looked at him steadily.  "There's no need he should," she said softly.  "And I'd not hurt him for the world."

Frodo studied her until his arms would no longer hold him and he eased himself down.  He reached for her hand and wrapped cold wiry fingers around her slim warm ones.  

"I think you've found a better road than even you know, Rose."  He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips.  "You will know joy and fulfillment, as will Sam, and that will cure me far better than you know.  Perhaps, if you'll both allow me, I'll walk that path beside you for awhile.  I would very much enjoy seeing the two of you happy."

Rose smiled and her tears began to flow anew.  She brought their hands to her own lips and kissed his fingers in an echo of his tender gesture.  "Aye sir," she said softly.  "We'd have it no other way.  For as long as you'll let us."

Frodo closed his eyes and let his head sink into the pillow.  "For as long as I may," he sighed.  With his hands still encircling hers, the Ringbearer smiled softly and slept.

~*~ END ~*~

A/N – _The last story in this trilogy is entitled 'Linden and Laurel' _

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